


Seasonal Apparel

by thecryoftheseagulls



Series: Logan Hawke [14]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anders Lives A Hawke's Big Meaty Thighs Appreciation Life, Blue Hawke, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 21:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15849594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecryoftheseagulls/pseuds/thecryoftheseagulls
Summary: For the DA Prompt Exchange Summer Fill-A-Thon, from the prompt:Buff, beefy gardener Hawke wears tiny booty shorts and a tight white shirt on a hot day but Anders is the one dying.





	Seasonal Apparel

“That man of yours surely has peculiar taste in,” the Widow Henley harumphs, “ _seasonal_ apparel.”

Anders pauses in his careful harvesting of chamomile flowers and sets the three blooms in his hand down in the basket beside him. He peers through the picket fence on the far side of the herb bed, the one that separates their front lawn from Mrs. Henley's, who is, at the present moment, engaged in focused pruning of the campanella roses on her side of the fence.

The rosebush in question does not need pruning.

Anders watches incredulously as she snips off a single leaf, watches impassively as it flutters to the ground, and then bends over to smell the nearest peach-colored rosebud.

“I...beg your pardon?” Anders says.

It’s just the kind of summer evening Anders loves, cooled off enough from the heat of the day to be a pleasant temperature, the sun dropping lower in the west to throw long shadows behind all of the buildings. The Marchants across the street mowed their lawn an hour ago, so the air smells like cut grass and roses and the lavender and mint and chamomile from the herb bed. Logan is sprawled in the hammock in the backyard, reading his latest library book, and Anders has plans to cuddle up and join him as soon as he has laid the chamomile he’s picking out to dry by the big window in the kitchen.

He’s not sure where Mrs. Henley’s decision to pretend to trim her roses as an excuse to gossip about his boyfriend falls on the Things Anders Wanted To Do Tonight List, but it certainly doesn't rank in the top ten, no sir.

“Normally,” Mrs. Henley continues, despite, or perhaps because of, Anders’ distinctly unimpressed expression, “you’ll see him wearing old jeans when he comes out to garden. And good sturdy gloves too, like the practical young man he is. I know he worked on farms when he was younger, your Hawke, and it shows, too; he's always drinking water and wearing hardy clothing when he comes out to garden.” She nods, decisive-like, the stamp of approval, and snips off another single leaf from her rosebush.

“But?” Anders prods, letting his hands fall to his thighs where he's knelt on the edge of the herb bed.

“But this week,” Mrs. Henley clucks her tongue and steps down the fence line to carefully wind some new stalks from the wild rose around her trellis. “This heat wave seems to have overcome even Hawke’s practical nature.” She sighs, gustily, and that's when Anders finally registers that it's not a sigh of disappointment, not at all.

“Mrs. Henley,” he says, pushing to his feet and dusting off his knees. “Have you been ogling my boyfriend?”

She looks across the fence at him, making direct eye contact for the first time this evening, and says, “Now, would I do that, dear?”

And then she winks.

When she turns around to walk away without another word, taking her clippers with her, Anders laughs under his breath until she's all the way inside her front door.

***

Anders manages to resist the temptation to bring up her comments to Hawke, but only just.

He has a half day at work tomorrow, just a couple of consultations down at the clinic before he gets to come home for the weekend, and Logan has the day off, which means if he's lucky, he’ll catch Logan in the yard as he comes home, and see for himself exactly what Mrs. Henley has been seeing.

He knows his boyfriend very well, because as he pulls his small car into the driveway the next day, he finds Logan outside. Specifically, he finds Logan washing his beater of a baby blue pickup truck under the hot midday sun, wearing a white shirt that's too small for him and a pair of denim shorts that clearly used to be jeans until someone took a pair of scissors to them.

Hawke is wearing _jorts_. 

Oh, if Varric could see him now.

Anders climbs out of his car in his work scrubs just as Logan clambers into the bed of his truck and starts cleaning out the soapy water there with a pushbroom.

Maelstrom, Logan's giant mutt of a grey-black rescue dog, gets up from the pavement to greet Anders with a whine.

“Me too, buddy,” Anders says, shading his eyes to get a good look up at Hawke.

“Hey babe, you're home,” Logan says, and his smile is bright white teeth and crinkles around his eyes. He lifts a soapy hand to push the thick black curls on his forehead back and out of his face as he straightens. The shorts are a little longer in front than they are in back, Anders observes, but they still only fall, jagged edged, to mid-thigh, revealing absolute _miles_ of corded brown muscle, thighs that are each broader than both of Anders’ legs put together, the strong curve of Logan's calves. His shirt, which Anders recognizes as one that shrunk in the wash a few times, tends to look like it’s been glued on to Logan's broad chest in the first place, and now it's got wet patches and is partially see-through, so honestly, he may as well not be wearing a shirt at all.

“Criminal,” Anders says, tearing his gaze away from Logan's thighs with some concerted effort.

Logan looks down at his ever-so-incredibly-bare legs and shrugs. “My gardening pants had holes in the knees,” he says.

Anders groans. He backs up a couple steps to set his work satchel on the hood of his car, and then beckons Logan to come closer than the far back of the pickup bed.

“Did you know,” Anders tugs at Logan's hand when he's close enough and Logan drops the broom and sits down on the back gate, with Anders between his thighs, “that Mrs. Henley has noticed your new choice of _seasonal apparel_?”

Logan ducks his chin, a little embarrassed, which is just -- too rich, considering what he's _wearing_.

“She notices everything,” Logan points out. 

“That's true,” Anders allows. Their immediate neighbor is the neighborhood busybody. On the plus side, no one could ever hope to get away with property damage on their street.

“Wait -- did she say something to you?” Logan asks, squirming as Anders runs his hands up the expanse of Logan's thighs and fingers the frayed hem of his shorts.

“Mm, yes, yesterday,” Anders says, his fingers slipping under the denim. 

Logan swallows.

Anders’ hands pause.

“Logan, sweetheart,” Anders asks, slowly, “did you cut the legs off these pants while you were still wearing them?”

“Well, sure,” Logan says, sounding puzzled.

“And it didn't occur to you that you might make the hem more straight if you, I don't know, took them off first?”

“....no,” Logan says.

“Blessed Andraste,” Anders prays, “give me strength.”

“Now that you're saying that, I see how that could, yes, make a little more sense,” Logan says.

“Do you think?” Anders asks weakly.

Logan bites his bottom lip with all the consternation of a goodhearted, overgrown farmboy, who sometimes forgets he grew up to look like a brown-skinned Clark Kent. (Complete with Superman proportions, in case that was unclear.)

“Here’s what we're going to do,” Anders says. He lets his fingers creep up under the ruined hem of Logan's jorts again, and pets him on that spot on Logan’s inner thighs that always makes him go weak-kneed. “We're going to walk into the house, out of sight of our very observant neighbors, and I am going to _peel_ these clothes off of you, and then I'm going to have my way with you, and before you are sufficiently recovered enough to stop me, I'm going to throw these shorts and this shirt to Maelstrom as chew toys, before you can wear them again and get fined for public indecency. All right?”

“Um,” Logan shivers.

“Any objections, farmboy?” Anders asks.

In answer, Logan hooks his legs around Anders’ hips and bends his head to kiss him, hard and wet and hungry.

Anders backs away to collect his satchel and gestures for Logan to precede him into the house.

***

“You know, I was going to throw the shorts out immediately. They were useless to protect my knees anyways, and it was so hot, I just cut the legs off and figured I'd throw them away at the end of the day,” Logan says later, sweaty and sated, a sprawl of broad limbs and muscle across their bed. “But Isabela came by and then Mrs. Henley was there and they both seemed to think I should wear them where you would see, first.”

Anders snort-chuckles into Logan's shoulder. “I should’ve known,” he says, shaking his head.

“I told Isabela you liked my thighs,” Logan says, a little smug.

“Sweetheart, I _worship_ your thighs,” Anders says.

“So I should keep the shorts?”

“I think you mean _jorts_ ,” Anders says. He stretches up Logan's body to kiss him languidly, and then whispers, “Absolutely not.”

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine this takes place in the same universe as [Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643235/chapters/12996109), but further down the road, when Anders and Logan have figured their relationship out and have a cute little house with a white picket fence and a giant garden and their dog (also probably a cat).
> 
> I'm over on [tumblr](http://thecryoftheseagulls.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/cryofseagulls) if y'all want more of this extremely sappy kind of content.


End file.
